Post by Person on Aug 24, 2009 12:40:29 GMT -5
Noon. Sweltering eighty-five with identical humidity. Corbeau steps up to the tee, scythe in hand, two-hundred yards from the hole. He breathes. He steps back and takes a practice swing or two. He steps up to the tee again. He aims the scythe. He swings, this one for the win. It is going...it's going! Rolling toward the hole now! Only inches away from the hole! Oh no! It stopped! There will be no celebration in the Corbeau household tonight! The underdog has lost it with the less-than crack shot there, folks!
That was try number forty-four, and Chase was running out of rocks. He felt a need that he needed to see just how close his rock came to going into the pit he had called a golfing hole. Walking two hundred yards in the heat was no easy task, and the teen was grateful that he did not bring his cloak during his 'practice session'. Instead, he had on a solid color gray t-shirt that he said was so soft it had to be 'woven baby skin treated with kitten tears' and black and white shorts that came down just below his knees.
He kept walking to his ersatz hole. Walking and walking, then he started up whistling to pass the yards more quickly. Then he reached the hole, and the borderline happy expression quickly turned sour. He swung his scythe at the ground as he saw where his rock had stopped: only inches from the hole. He could breathe on the rock to put it into the hole. In his teenage strategy of anger expulsion, he kicked the rock hard, forcing it some distance from him and the hole. He had thought that he would finally have a good reason to pull a Tiger-like fist pump for once, but no. It seems like the gods of golf were not smiling on him today, probably because of the crudity of his course.
Chase needed a break from the golf, and so he walked to a shady position underneath one of the trees that surrounded the hills and sat against it. It seemed the lower the temperature, the more people-friendly mood he gained. The shade had magic like that. He took a deep breath and stared into space, as if hypnotized.
That was try number forty-four, and Chase was running out of rocks. He felt a need that he needed to see just how close his rock came to going into the pit he had called a golfing hole. Walking two hundred yards in the heat was no easy task, and the teen was grateful that he did not bring his cloak during his 'practice session'. Instead, he had on a solid color gray t-shirt that he said was so soft it had to be 'woven baby skin treated with kitten tears' and black and white shorts that came down just below his knees.
He kept walking to his ersatz hole. Walking and walking, then he started up whistling to pass the yards more quickly. Then he reached the hole, and the borderline happy expression quickly turned sour. He swung his scythe at the ground as he saw where his rock had stopped: only inches from the hole. He could breathe on the rock to put it into the hole. In his teenage strategy of anger expulsion, he kicked the rock hard, forcing it some distance from him and the hole. He had thought that he would finally have a good reason to pull a Tiger-like fist pump for once, but no. It seems like the gods of golf were not smiling on him today, probably because of the crudity of his course.
Chase needed a break from the golf, and so he walked to a shady position underneath one of the trees that surrounded the hills and sat against it. It seemed the lower the temperature, the more people-friendly mood he gained. The shade had magic like that. He took a deep breath and stared into space, as if hypnotized.